the bluest hour

the darkest hour

harnessing the brightest souls -

the salt of the earth 

thirsting for more sunlight

but perhaps angels are made in the nighttime 

when the sun bows and the moon takes up space 

some fear that in the black of the night 

joy will be swept away 

they say joy comes in the morning

I say 

the darker the night, the sweeter the fruit

would you dare to be reborn

on the other side of intangible grief 

or the sadness that can be consoled,

like waves crashing over, 

watering the seeds you didn’t know were sown - 

Seeds with particular conditions for growth. 

No sunlight. 

Deprivation.

Requiring your aauanitance with the parts of you that you have yet to meet. 

The shadows, that linger behind every mask, 

Behind every, “im good” 

Yearning to be cradled, 

To be held

To be known 

To be loved 

In the darkest hour 

The bluest hour 

The coldest hour 

The loneliest hour 

You can find me holding my childhood dolls, 

Sewing buttons back on in places they were pulled

By people that were supposed to love me in the light 

But in the darkest hour 

You can find me 

Washing the back of my teenage self 

As she weeps into her knees 

Wondering why it was so hard to love her, 

But so easy to let her go

But I won’t let go 

Because In the darkest hour 

I stich scars

I open wounds so I can pour fresh soil,

Old graves can still become gardens,

Perhaps eden is in me, because

In the bluest hour 

My skin becomes silver, 

I feel expensive, 

Requiring more than cheap thrills and calculated connections 

the apples I eat leave my spirit full. here I hunger no more. 

She feels deep

Her feet have traveled places people fear to see

But in these caves she finds warmth in the cold

Her light, ignited with every granted permission to cry

To feel 

To love 

To be 

In the darkest hour. 

The bluest hour.